


Homecoming

by smallhorizons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallhorizons/pseuds/smallhorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks after the angels fall, Castiel shows up at the Bunker. Dean and Sam are there to welcome him home.</p><p>(Written in August before Season 9 premiered; cross-posted from Tumblr.)</p><p>Edited 4/23/2015 to include an extension I wrote soon after posting this to AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

It’s been three weeks. It’s been three  _goddamn_ weeks, Dean thinks, and he wishes he could say or do something, but the disbelief has turned his muscles to stone, and the blue eyes locked onto his make even the idea of movement painful.

He’s swaying on his feet; there’s blood dried on his collar and dripping down the front of his shirt and coating his sleeves in rust red. Mud has plastered his pants to the ground. He’s barefoot. There are dark rings under his eyes and his lips are cracked and when he stares at Dean, he looks at him as though he’s the only thing that exists. Like a prayer, a benediction, a desperate plea.

“Dean,” Cas says, and that’s all, just his name, like his name is the only word Cas knows. His face is pale and hollowed out beneath the grime. He looks freakishly, terribly human.

Dean realizes only know that he’s been holding on to the door hard enough to leave his knuckles white and aching. Deliberately, he releases his fist, takes a deep breath. First things first, he thinks. “Cas,” he says, feels something more like a shriek trying to clamber out of his throat, has to take another deep breath. “Cas, buddy, you look like hell,” he says finally.

It isn’t funny, at least, he doesn’t  _think_ it’s funny, but Cas chokes on a sound that might be a laugh, thin and rasping, and then  _can’t stop_. He staggers, off-balance by the hysterics, and there are—oh, fuck, there are tears spilling over his shut eyes, it’s not laughter, he’s sobbing, Castiel,  _Castiel_ , and Dean lurches forward before he can think about it, catches Cas around the waist just as his legs give out.

“Hey, hey, you’re gonna be okay, Cas, you hear me, you’re gonna be okay,” Dean babbles, clutching at Cas—and Cas’s face is pressed against his neck, and Dean can  _feel_ the convulsions as Cas struggles to get his breath back, struggles to compose himself, hands scrabbling at Dean’s arms, can feel Cas’s hot cheek warming his skin, the tears soaking into his shirt.

He can’t hold the both of them up, not when Cas is dead weight like this, and it’s awkward, trying to get a more secure grip so Cas doesn’t slip while he tries to lower them to the ground, but he manages, somehow, and then they’re kneeling on the ground together with Cas collapsed half over Dean, as if Dean is his pillar, as if Dean is the only thing holding him upright.

Footsteps: Sam’s slightly cautious, uneven gait. “Dean, what’s—” and then, “ _Oh_ ,” as Sam takes in what’s happening. Dean turns his head just enough so that he can look Sam in the eye, shake his head quietly when Sam meets his gaze with a question written all over his face. Sam glances between the two of them once, looking larger than life and yet so—so fucking  _diminished_ , standing there in the doorway, still thin and worn from the trials; and Dean follows his gaze back to Cas, who’s still shuddering, breath hitching.

“S’alright, Cas,” Dean murmurs, “I got you.” Sam is watching; Dean doesn’t care. He rests his chin atop Cas’s head, wraps his arms more securely around Cas. The end result is that Cas is pulled closer, practically in Dean’s lap, legs bent beneath him and spine bent as if he could only curl himself into so small a shape as to be nothing.

Receding footsteps mark Sam’s retreat; and then not a minute later they precede his arrival as he drapes a towel, dry and thick and warm, over Cas’s shoulders. Dean looks at Sam and feels as though his despair is pouring out of him, feels the tightness of his throat and the hard knot stuck there, feels the weight of Cas’s grief and his own settling, impossibly heavy, over his back. Sam kneels down, carefully, next to the two of them, and places his hand gently on Cas’s back, just for a moment, and murmurs, “Welcome home, Cas.” Then stands and rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezes, and retreats back inside.

Dean closes his eyes and presses his cheek against Cas’s hair, the scent of mud and sweat and rain thick in his nose, and try as he might, he can’t smell lightning on Cas’s skin. Human.  _Fallen_. Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ , Dean thinks, and if his breathing is a little ragged, if he lets loose a sob of his own, well, it’s not as though Sam is there to see.

 

* * *

 

Cas falls asleep on Dean, wet face pressed to his shoulder, between one ragged breath and the next. Dean is glad of it; he doesn’t think he can talk to Cas, not now, not like this. It’s been three weeks since the angels fell, three weeks since he saw Cas. He deserves the rest.

Dean wonders how he got here, how he managed to find his way back to Dean. If he hitchhiked, or stole a car, or— _god_ , if he walked, if Jimmy Novak’s Sunday-best leather shoes had worn into nothingness and been left behind on the side of the road.

Carefully, mindful of his back and of the battered figure in his arms, Dean braces himself and rises to his feet, pulling Cas with him. Castiel lolls against him, limp, and after a moment of awkward consideration, Dean manages to bend down enough to hook an arm under Castiel’s knees and, with a grunt, lift him up in his arms. It worries him that it’s not more difficult to pick up what is essentially a grown man, and he worries more when he realizes that it’s been  _three weeks_ , Cas has been—has been  _human_ for three weeks, hasn’t had a good meal—what if he hasn’t eaten at all—and Dean has to take a deep breath and blink hard to keep his panic at bay.

“Okay, buddy,” he says out loud. “Let’s get you inside.” There is a muffled breath—not quite loud enough to be a snore—against his shoulder.  _I got you, Cas_ , Dean thinks.  _I’m gonna take care of you_. “We’re gonna be fine,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through this. You and me, Cas. Just like always.”

He expects a response, but of course there is none; just the steady, wheezing breaths passing through Cas’s lips. Dean hoists Cas up a little higher, makes sure his grip is sure, and begins his descent into the bunker. He’ll put Cas in his room, he decides, and he manages to convince himself it’s just because he doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Dean is careful walking while holding Castiel; his grip is tenuous at best, and he has to stop often to readjust his hold. Castiel’s head lolls against his shoulder when Dean braces his knee beneath him to hoist him up just a little higher, hair tickling the curve of Dean’s jaw, and Dean freezes, just for a moment, because he could have sworn he heard Cas mumble his name, but after a moment of silence he decides his ears are playing tricks on him.

Eventually, Dean shoulders open the door to his room and is able to lower Castiel to the bed, groaning as his back twinges. Castiel makes a soft, low noise in the back of his throat, stirring briefly, and Dean shushes him as gently as he can. “Gonna take care of you, Cas,” he murmurs, and he is met for a moment by a sliver of sleep-hazed blue eyes. “Go back to sleep.” He rests his fingertips lightly against Cas’s cheek, a shadow of comfort.

The eyes droop shut again. Dean is sure Castiel won’t remember how gentle his hands were when he wakes up.

Dean makes quick work of manhandling Castiel out of his trench coat and suit jacket, holding Cas up against him—forehead cool and clammy against Dean’s chin—while he takes off the sodden outerwear. The white button-up he’s wearing is ruined, so when Dean slides it off Cas’s shoulders he wads it up and tosses it into the garbage bin. Cas is left in an undershirt, too large for him now that his three weeks of wandering have taken their toll on his body, and his pants. He takes the undershirt off, grimacing at the muck that’s managed to soak all the way through Cas’s layers, and then Cas is left in pants and nothing else.

Resolutely ignoring the discomfort of the situation, Dean unzips and unbuttons Cas’s dress pants, laying Cas carefully back on the bed before tugging them off all the way. Jimmy Novak wears oversized white boxers, apparently. Dean averts his eyes and slides them down Cas’s legs—and he can’t help but notice the pronounced shape of his knees, the knobby joints in his ankles, the sharp contour of tendons in his feet—and hurriedly tucks the blanket over Cas’s body. He needs to sleep, Dean thinks. When he wakes up, Dean will shove him into a shower with strict instructions.

For now, Dean stands up to get a basin of water and a washcloth in order to wipe off the worst of the grime. When he returns to the room, Cas has curled into himself, face buried in Dean’s pillow, the blanket clutched in his arms, back bare to the room. There are bruises peppered along his spine and lower ribs, a few scrapes. Dean’s heart twists painfully.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the word lost to the quiet of the room, and then he lowers himself gently next to Cas. The bed dips under his weight, creaking slightly, and Cas squirms, shoulder blades twitching. Dean rests his hand on Cas’s back briefly, a feather-light touch, and another shudder ripples through Cas’s body. Dean sucks in a breath and closes his eyes and thinks, _Fuck, Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, you stupid feathery asshole. Why didn’t you listen to me, huh? Fuck, Cas. Just—_ fuck _._

And then, a beat later: _I’m so glad you’re here, Cas._

He is gentle with the washcloth on Cas’s skin, but Cas still twitches and shudders at the contact, his sleep agitated and restless. When Dean is done, the water is brackish, dark and dull from the dirt, and Cas looks—better. Marginally.

Dean rests his hand on the back of Cas’s head, running his fingers through the longish hair, and listens to Cas breathe: in, out, in again, soft and rasping. His other hand tightens into a fist. He stares at the wall and tries to swallow past the knot in his throat and thinks, _I thought you were dead, you asshole._

Abruptly, Dean can’t stand the sight of Cas. He needs to leave. He needs—fuck, he needs a drink. He needs to stop thinking. He needs—he needs—fuck, _fuck_ , he doesn’t know, he just needs to be gone, he needs to get out. The room is stifling, and Dean just—fuck, and now his eyes are burning and his throat is too tight, and why the fuck can’t things just be _simple_ for once?

Dean leaves Cas dead to the world in his bed, and he wants to slam the door shut—but he catches himself at the last minute, jaw twitching, and he shuts it carefully, quietly, the only sound a near-silent click. He stands for a moment at the door, hands clenching and unclenching, before he stalks to the kitchen. There’s beer in the fridge. Beer and rum and who the fuck cares what else. He hasn't been able to slip into sleep since the angels fell without the warmth of alcohol in his belly—but tonight, he thinks, he really, truly needs it, needs the numbing effect of alcohol more than he has in fuck-knows-how-long, needs to be dragged into sleep by it because he knows nothing else is going to work. Because Cas is curled in on himself in Dean's bed, diminished and fragile, and he  _left_ Dean, he left Dean when Dean needed him to stay, needed to have Cas at his back, and it's been three weeks, and Dean doesn't know if he's furious or terrified, or if the sharp ache in his chest is because he'd wanted, just for a minute, to slip into the bed beside Cas, gather him up in his arms, press his nose to Cas' dark hair. Press a kiss to his temple. Fall asleep there, holding and being held. 

But that's never gonna happen. Cas is gonna wake up in the morning and then fuck off to god-knows-where because he  _never stays_ , Dean isn't enough for him to stay. 

The bitter hurt of that, the regret and the anger and the sickening longing, keeps him awake long into the night no matter how many glasses of scotch he drowns himself in. He falls asleep on a couch in the library, sleep restless and filled with images of Cas' back as he walks away.


End file.
